I have always known that DS1 is a rascal. For a baby who entered the world silently crying, he has definitely found his way to be noticed!

If there was a ponytail to be pulled in nursery, DS1 was more than willing to oblige. If there were cheeks to be pinched, DS1 was your man. If there were shorts to be pulled down DS1 was the cheeky, little munchkin who would be in fits of infectious giggles as he did the deed.

His favourite word/adjective/verb is ‘poo/poopy/pooping’ and he takes every opportunity to work those into every conversation, accompanied by belly aching laughter. If ‘on command farting’ were an Olympic sport, he would be the Michael Phelps of the ‘event’.

It must have been when he was around 7 years old that he discovered his superhero power; the power to aggravate the living daylights out of his twin sister. Generally not known for his ability to concentrate for long periods of time, his commitment to tormenting his 2 minute older sis is surprisingly focused and determined. After pick up, the middle row of seats of my car would be DS1’s stage. Trapped, without any escape route, DD would often be subjected to a torrent of teasing – purely for her brother’s personal entertainment.

One day when ferrying the kiddos from school to activities, my second born was pushing everyone’s buttons, and frankly behaving like an expat brat (translation – ‘demanding and ungrateful’). Unable to participate in his own football training due to injury, I told him he could either attend his club’s presentation about his Easter Manchester trip with DH or come with me to DD’s netball training. Faced with this choice DS1 amped up the obnoxious levels, and so I made the choice for him.

Stomping off to my car I could swear I saw puffs of white-ish steam whistle from his nostrils and ears. Horrid Henry came to mind. With every movement he huffed, puffed whilst deliberately turning around to throw me daggers’ looks. To this day I am surprised my passenger door survived the slam. Together with DD we drove in pre-teen, sulky silence to the next venue.

When we arrived at the next venue I asked DS1 to go ahead and sign us all in. All he had to do was enter into the logbook our name, time, reason for being at this school after hours and phone number. On entering the venue a lovely friend who was standing behind DS1 when he signed in giggled as she asked me ‘do you know what your son wrote for ‘reason for visit’? Exasperated by this stage, I am sure my eyes rolled to the heavens…..’What now?’ I grimaced inwardly as Horrid Henry once again came to mind. ‘Boring netball’ came the response as my friend struggled to maintain a straight face.

I slumped on the nearest bench in dismay as DS1, to my relief and before I said anything I might regret, wandered as far away from me as possible.

Courtside catch up with other mums of netball addicted daughters was a welcome distraction to the point that half way through the session, I felt DS1 had served his time and I offered him my phone as an olive branch; something to entertain him for the second half of his sister’s netball training.

Assuming he would be meserised by Instagram and Facebook, I didn’t give it a second thought.

How was I to know the berated, chastised little scamp still had mischief in him??

Within minutes, and unbeknownst to me, he managed to send DH a message from my phone asking DH where he was….the troublesome scamp maintained (on my behalf) that DS1 had only gone to my car to get his book and had returned to the training pitch at the initial venue. DH, needless to say, switched into panic mode. ‘What do you mean?’ ‘I haven’t seen him since he left with you’. ‘I am in a meeting’. ‘Where is DS1?’

The rising mercury signals two of the things I dread the most about expat life in Dubai. Firstly, the insane summer temperatures accompanied by the feeling that each time you open a car door, it feels like you are opening the door to your 220C fan assisted oven; and secondly, the ‘goodbyes’.

A few weeks back summer definitively arrived with all its bells and whistles of its burning breeze and sticky humidity. One always holds out (against all hope I might add), that there will be a forgiving dip in the relentless heat, and when it doesn’t happen, the hope quickly fades, and a collective sigh and shoulder shrug voices our resignation to a baking, hot few months ahead.

Unlike learning how to adapt and adjust to the guaranteed blazing summer temps, it is not so easy to adapt and adjust to farewells: it just never seems to get any easier. Perhaps it is because we know summer is a given, a certainty, guaranteed. We know to expect it. We know it is unavoidable. Saying ‘goodbye’ to friends is different. Friends leaving is not always a given, a certainty.

Almost 11 years in the sandpit and summers now feel a lot more different to those of our carefree, early, toddler years. With nothing to worry about other than finger painting and building sandcastles, moves were triggered by job requirements and possibly homesickness.

Now, in secondary school, moving tactics come into play. When is best to move? Y7 or Y9? Which year will make the transition to schools easier? What happens if you miss those windows of opportunity? What happens if your kids don’t seamlessly slot into each year group?

I should take a leaf out of my kids’ book……keep a wide group of friends.

That is the nature of the beast that is expat life. Given the choice – I would choose the scorching temps every time if it means we get to keep our friends.

Last month I took my daughter and my youngest son to Ireland. Since moving to Dubai over ten years ago, it was their first ever trip back in spring. One day, when walking through my parents’ garden, I caught myself pointing out the spring daffodils and crocuses to my kids because those flowers are not there in summer when we usually visit (and most definitely not in Dubai gardens at any time of the year). This gave me pause for thought.

I realised I miss the seasons. I miss seeing golden daffodils and white crocuses peeking through damp, spring soil. I miss the crunch of autumn’s fallen, bronzed leaves underfoot. I miss the bracing, fresh air when the winter sky is cloudless and an uplifting shade of blue. I almost miss the rain. I missed home, and the childhood on which my kiddos were, I felt, missing out.

An oft quoted view of Dubai’s seasons is ‘there are only two seasons; hot and flippin’ hot’. In winter, pretty petals from the burnt orange flame trees carpet lawns and pavements. When the mercury rises, the elegant, pink shaded desert rose proudly assumes her summer domain. Endless blue skies give way to relaxing, balmy evenings filled with the refreshing scent of jasmine, and the orchestral chirping of crickets.

When I think about my childhood in what was a small seaside town, I remember racing home from school to grab the stale bread to feed the fluffy, white swans who would be waiting patiently on the shallow, brown river under the town’s bridge. I remember championing the cause of the garden snail: rescuing them from the trample danger zone of the garden path to escort them to the safety of the cabbage patch (yes, the cabbage patch!). I remember pouring soapy water on grass to tease worms to wriggle upwards through the lush, green grass. I remember running shopping errands to the greengrocers, butchers, fishmongers; running out for that pint of milk or the evening newspaper. I remember fishing for tadpoles in the river that cuts through my hometown, and carrying home my catch in used, glass, jam jars (and often dropping wet, slippery jars on the way!). I remember rummaging through rock pools by the Irish sea, searching for crabs and other interesting marine life. I remember sand peppered sandwiches amongst the sand dunes of Brittas Bay which I imagined were just like some exotic beach destination.

In the desert, my munchkins are ferried everywhere in ‘Mom’s Taxi’, and unfortunately don’t have the opportunity to run to the corner shop when we run out of milk or bread. Even so, in the desert we have taken the chance to teach our kiddos to champion the cause of the gecko, especially the teeny, weeny baby ones. When they come inside the house, seeking refuge from the adverse environment outside, we leave them be. DS1 Googled and discovered geckos like to eat crickets and cockroaches (as well as grapes if in captivity….not quite sure how the gecko could wrap his jaws around half a grape!)…unfortunately for DS1, he is not quick enough to catch those critters (and given we pay exterminators to rid our home of the dreaded pest that is the cockroach, there is no way we will be inviting them in!). Free weekend mornings are spent wading through the clear waters of the Persian Gulf; trying to stealthily creep up on darting, slim, silvery fish, crabs and starfish all the while trying to avoid the jelly fish.

Different countries. Different continents. Different generations. Approximately 6,000KM and an 8 hour flight apart and my kiddos’ lives are, as we would say in Dubai, ‘same-same but different’ to my childhood.

Driving is, unfortunately, one aspect of Dubai life that is nigh on impossible to avoid. Indeed some days it feels like that’s all I do – early morning drop off for sports training, regular drop off, errands across the Emirate, pick ups, football training drop off for DS2, home for dinner with the other two munchkins, pick up DS2 and drop DS1 for his football training before taking DD to netball training…..it is no wonder that my derriere appears to have taken on the shape of my well worn cream, leather car seat!

During the week my car is a changing room (albeit a very messy and smelly one), a dining room and (much to my chagrin) less so, a study. My 4×4 is my second home…..

When the mercury begins to rise, it is every desert car’s duty to offer a welcoming, air conditioned haven from the searing temperatures. When choosing the optimal parking spot, whether it be at school pick up or footie training, we taxi mums use well practised technical, and very complex algorithims, all soley based on minimising sweat patches and fending off frizzy tendrils. Yet, so often I found myself turning the stuffy, hot air blue because my previous car’s AC did not hold up its end of the bargain when it came to its cooling responsibilities. That said, humidity fogged up sunglasses often blinded me to the car’s other positive attributes as I began to dream of the car with optimal AC….

Fast forward too many sweaty days…

Zipping around in my new car, I and my shiny, smooth tresses laugh in the face of the increasing temperatures. Inside my personal igloo, I even forget what time of year it is, and keep a pashmina to hand should it get too chilly. My munchkins’ messy meltdowns have evaporated, and no one screams in agony when the metal buckle on the seat belt touches them.

As I get to know my new, chilled friend, AC competence no longer ranks up there as a priority, and I begin to notice other, how shall I say….deficiencies with my new best friend. The fact the dashboard does not screech neon seatbelt signs at me when the front seat passenger is not buckled up (yet does when the driver is not clicked in) is slightly concerning in this day and age of smart-everything. The foot step thingy on the outside of the car aimed at, I assume, aiding a less clumsy looking embarkation and disembarkation into a high off the ground 4×4, are so narrow I end up positioning my foot accordingly causing my ankle to bash against the car door frame, and it’s beginning to hurt. First world problems – I know! Randomly the dashboard screams ‘BRAKE‘ in bright, neon letters when I am at more than a ‘safe’ distance. Why? I have no idea…at this rate this feature is likely to cause an accident as opposed to preventing one!

Yet when I found myself standing at the rear end of my car, desperately scouting the sides, the interior, the fob key….looking for the button that closes the boot automatically…..only to realise I had to close it manually…..I questioned my wisdom in focusing on AC for my new ride….

Last week, DD and DS1 ventured off on their Y7 residential trip. A week long trip to somewhere in the middle of nowhere in Ras al Khaimah. Months of building anticipation of a week long sleepover with their friends had finally arrived (I am sure no school for a week had nothing to do with their elation!).

Bogged down with the smartphone generation’s idea of camping equipment, DD and DS1 set off for school in the desert morning sun with their non-back breaking travel bags on wheels, with their sleeping bags neatly slung around the handle. There they would wait to board the coach that would whisk them away on a week of team building exercises and mental toughness challenges.

Incapable of adhering to teachers’ instructions to remain in their form groups, most students dodged through the growing gaggle in search of their BFFs to, I suspect, plan sleeping arrangements, pyjama parties and midnight feasts. The mood of the milling crowd of tweens on the pavement was a mixture of excited chatter and cautious quiet as it dawned on some that a 4 nights away from home also meant 4 nights away from Mum and Dad.

One week. One whole, school week. Sunday to Thursday. No phones permitted. No contact permitted.

Parents had been fully briefed to expect Facebook updates with some photos only after 8pm. It was made clear that the emergency number was for just that……real emergencies.

As a Mum I do love how my kids have the opportunity to experience such great trips with their friends. Lots of outdoor activities. Bonding. Making new friends. Learning new skills (even if some of those skills are unlikely to be called on in the future such as swallowing a fish eye without wincing or gutting the poor thing in the first place). If I am honest, I look forward to the break from yelling at them like a drill sergeant as I try to deliver them to their post school activities on time with sufficient food and water in their bellies to get them through it.

But then, when it comes to it, by 2pm on Day 1, withdrawal symptoms kick in, and I What’s App a friend who I know is feeling like me, so we can count down the hours to the Facebook update together.

It’s funny really. On any given day I don’t see my bambinos for around 8 of the 14 hours they are awake; sometimes even more if they have a playdate or someone else takes them to their activities. Yet, 6 hours after waving them off to camp, I wonder how I will sleep through the night let alone the next 4 without cracking, and devising a credible excuse to dial the emergency number.

Slow forward the next 3 days and we found ourselves on the same burning pavement, excitedly waiting to greet the desert wanderers. As I imagined hugging my babies, tears began to form, and I was thankful for my oversized sunglasses that hid any sign of emotion. When the coaches pulled up slowly to the parking bays by the pavement, I felt a smidge of panic. How should I greet increasingly self-conscious tweens who will be surrounded by their peers without embarrassing them and inducing the pre teen glare, whilst at the same time letting them know how much I missed them and how much I love them???? Cue another swell of tears.

Stepping off the bus, my tears dried and my smile grew. They looked taller, older. Perhaps those new life skills had made them wiser and more mature looking. One thing is for sure, judging by their rouge complexions…..applying sun block was not a life skill they managed to perfect!

Last week I had a call from the vet who treats our pooch to remind me that he is due his vaccinations before the end of the month, and that I should remember to bring his pet passport to be updated. This call triggered in me a double reaction: firstly, one of eye rolling at the ongoing maintenance (and cost!) of having a pet pooch; and secondly, one of utter dread that reached into the pit of my stomach….all because a trip to the vet means transporting the little monster in my car. A 10 minute trip to the vet sounds easy enough….easy enough for dogs who are not terrified of being a doggie passenger; and easy enough for dogs who do not get car sick.

I am pretty certain that Poochie Poo’s fear of the 4 wheeled beast lies in his previous vehicle experiences: every time he has been in the car, he has vomited. I am not just talking about a little spit up, but rather a complete emptying of the contents of his greedy tummy until he reaches a point where he is just frothing at the mouth, and swaying drunkenly in the back seat, with a pitiful look that said ‘please make this stop’.

The last time I tried to get the 4 legged munchkin into the car was practically as traumatic for me as it was for him. Refusing to go willingly (even with the temptation of a cooked bacon sausage in the back seat!) I had no other option but to pick him up and plonk him on the back seat. The poor thing was shaking like a leaf and, I swear the shiny black pools he has for eyes begged me to set him free.

That was quite some time ago. In the meantime, he has celebrated his 7th doggie birthday, matured, calmed down, and as my back was about to find out….gained weight!

I had planned the morning of the appointment with the vet with military precision. If Teddy to resist I knew that the less-than-10-minute drive from our home could double, or possibly even triple so I embarked on mission ‘get Teddy into the car’ with a lot of time to spare.

And, it was a good thing I did. On his leash, Teddy pulled with all his moulting might in the opposite direction of the car. Digging 4 paws in whilst shoving his hind to the ground to get more leverage. Sweating, frazzled, and hair frizzing in the morning humidity, I was forced into a semi-surrender. ‘Semi’ because I had to get him to the vet.

Crankily, I began a lecture as if I were talking to a tantrum toddler, ‘you have left me with no option, Teds. You are getting in this car whether you like it or not.’ When I think about the ultimatums I offered my darlings when they were toddlers; the amount of ultimatums that were ignored, no matter what I said, no matter what tone I took…..I knew I was fighting a losing battle with Teddy.

There was only one thing for it. The ‘lift and drop’ was my only option.

More savvy than the last time, the little scamp was prepared. As I tucked my arms under his belly to position him 4 paws first into the car, he somehow managed to spread eagle all 4 limbs, and plant each one of them against the exterior frame of the car. The stealth like move brought me back to the days of trying to seat my reluctant toddler twins into their car seats. Limbs flailing. Backs arching. Feet pressing up against the backs of the front row. Faces progressing through a pallet of pink to bright red, and tears….with me wanting to pin them down with my knee whilst I buckled them up.

Weary at the memory, I was not sure I would have sufficient strength to tackle a 4 legged creature.

Thankfully, armed with kitchen towel and disinfectant spray to mop up any potential vomit, my helper came to my rescue. Shutting down every possible escape route by closing all doors and windows, we pried away each paw away from the car nail by nail…. whimpering we finally had Teddy in situ. I could swear he was throwing me daggers as I reversed out of the drive. I will probably end up paying a dog psychologist to deal with the trauma I inflicted on him that day……

Last night, I spent the best part of an hour wrestling with DD’s new science book and clear sticky back covering. Generally a procrastinator by nature, I surprised myself when I whipped out my roll of sticky back covering to start measuring the amount I would need. In the interests of full disclosure, DD did pass on her science teacher’s warning ‘you will be responsible for the replacement of the book should you bend the pages’. Having witnessed DD stuffing her books into her school backpack, I was not convinced the science book pages could survive unscathed. So, I got to work.

And work it was.

Attempt 1 – Usually when covering school books, my biggest concern is air bubbles. My experience tells me, the larger the book, the greater the chance of unsightly air bubbles, which in turn makes for an eye-rolling-to-heaven DD (and goodness knows no one wants that!). The science book was not small. My first attempt saw me unwittingly make the rookie error of ensuring the front cover was not completely flat on the sticky side of the wrapping. Result – a crumpled cover by the binding….

DD raised her hands to her head and shrieked in panic. ‘Muuuummmmmyyyyyy – what are you doing?????’

An educated guess told me that DD’s reaction meant my initial attempt was not acceptable; that I was going to have to peel off the sticky covering whilst praying it came off cleanly, and without skimming patches off the top layer.

Easier said than done.

Not possessing octopus like limbs I was forced to recruit DD’s assistance within seconds of embarking on mission ‘undo covering’. This sticky stuff is super sticky: once it sticks to you, it is almost impossible to extract yourself. Indeed, like quicksand, the more you struggle against it, the more you get sucked into its sticky, preying claws. Attempts to free one fingertip requires you to use another fingertip or two or three…..Before I knew it I was swearing at an inanimate piece of plastic, and reminiscing about the good ole’ days when we covered school books in brown paper or used gift wrap. Granted, paper did not offer the same indestructible protection….but still…

Rough, gluey remnants remained on the inside cover. Turning the book over to remove the back cover saw the first paper page attach itself to these sticky bits. YIKES! Can I safely coax flimsy paper away from the clutches of this gummy enemy???

Attempt 2 – who knew pre cut sticky covering can rip so easily??

Attempt 3 – I am sure my frustration filtered to my fingers causing the covering to stick to itself, causing ugly creases and more damage to the book than DD’s backpack could ever inflict.

Attempt 4 – See Attempt.

At this point DD had surrendered in the face of such extreme adversity. In my head I was seriously considering handing over an envelope of cash (that would be kept secret from DH) to cover the cost of the science book.